Storm and Steel (43 page)

As the flow of soldiers trickled to a halt, the mercs pushed inside the doorways with murder in their eyes. Ismail leaned against the side of the building. His nerves were shot. He just wanted to give up and let someone else deal with the situation. Yadz leaned beside him, smiling and gulping down fresh air. Then the rebel straightened up. “Oh no.”

Ismail looked and almost swallowed his tongue as he spotted the old mercenary warlock. What was his name? Two Stars? The elderly merc stood in the street, humming something as he waved his hands back and forth. His gaze was focused on the building behind them.

“Ishy,” Yadz said.

“Move!”

They both ran. Ismail got six steps away before a violent wind swept in behind them, lifting them up and shoving them forward. He landed on his side and rolled over several times until he crashed against a tenement building across the street. His ears rang like he'd been rabbit-punched repeatedly. Across the street, the building's upper floors were engulfed in flame. Pieces of wall fell to the ground in smoldering piles. Groans echoed from every quarter.

The old warlock slumped, and Ismail sincerely hoped he was out of magic power or whatever wizards used to fuel their enchantments. He started to get up until he saw Yadz lying on his stomach a couple feet away. Ismail crawled over to jostle him but stopped as his hand hovered above the motionless figure. Yadz's entire face had been ripped away. Mangled shreds of muscle and bone stared back at him, the eyeballs melted away.

Ismail sat back. He'd lost his spear, but he didn't care. He was the last of his squad. Perhaps the last rebel left alive. It was over.

“Come on, soldier,” a grim voice spoke beside him.

Ismail looked up to see Captain Ovar standing over him. The mercenary captain had lost his helmet. His uniform was stained with blood and what looked like soot, or maybe it was dark mud. Fresh gore stained the hilt of his sword and its scabbard. Any other time, Ismail would have hurried to obey, but at this particular moment he didn't care. Other mercs moved around the rubble-covered street, dispatching the wounded enemy.

Suddenly, Ovar grabbed his arm and heaved him to his feet. Ismail didn't have the energy to resist, so he stood on numb legs. “I don't understand,” he said. “Some of your men were inside. He killed them, too.”

Captain Ovar held him steady. “They knew going in, son. Someone had to hold off the enemy while Three Moons worked his mojo.”

How is that possible? What kind of men are these mercenaries?

“Where is your commanding officer?” Ovar asked.

“My sergeant and corporal are dead. The bosses got taken.”

He left it at that. No use in trying to describe things he couldn't explain. Captain Ovar nodded as if that was enough. “Fine. You'll come with us then.”

The captain stripped a demilance and a dented round shield from the corpse of a young soldier and shoved them into his hands. “Here. Strap up and get moving, son. We're not out of this yet.”

Ovar shoved him toward the group of mercs assembling at the far intersection. A hulking brute of a man at least a foot taller than Ismail spotted him and called out. “Fall in! Second rank!”

After some jostling, Ismail found himself hustled into a square formation. The pikemen on the outside lifted their great shields and they began marching, back through the street the way they had come.

Ismail spared a glance over his shoulder, but there was nothing to see in the gloom as the smoke and darkness of night swept in behind them.

They knew going in. Gods damn us, didn't we all?

The first traces of dawn shimmered across the sky as the rebels scrambled over the dark fields, dragging their wounded with them. Stepping over a low wall that divided the fallow plots, Ismail set down his weapons and sat on the stone hedge. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle in his body, begging him to lie down and close his eyes.

The rest of the rebels kept moving. There were precious few of them left alive, hardly enough to fill out a platoon. The mercenaries had fared a little better. On the final push out of Sekhatun, another wave of Akeshian legionnaires struck them from the rear. Captain Ovar had sent half of his remaining force to hold them off while the rebels escaped.
What a disaster. Most of us dead. Our leaders captured. This is it, the death of the rebellion. There's no way we can come back from this
.

Captain Ovar came over to stand beside him. Ismail craned his neck to look up. The mercenary captain wore a strange expression, appearing both relieved and disheartened. Ismail tried to think of something to say, some way to boil what they had just experienced down into a pithy sentiment, but his mind was a blank.

As the survivors shuffled past them, Captain Ovar pulled off his bloody gauntlets and tucked them in his war-belt. “Don't give in to it, son.”

“To what?”

“After a bad defeat, there's a tendency to wallow in the despair. To see it as an omen that things are going to only get worse. You have to fight that. If you stay in this game long enough, you're going to lose every once in a while. Sometimes a lot. But my outfit's fought back before and we'll do it again.”

Ismail lifted his head in a nod, but the gesture didn't extend to his heart. The dark feelings remained, weighing him down. “What do we do now?”

“Well, I figure they're going to take your captain to Erugash. I know a few people, so we'll see what we can piece together.”

Erugash? That's insane. Just walk right into the lioness's den
.

After a few seconds, Ismail took up his weapons and rejoined the silent procession filing away from the town.

His eyes strained as he reread the passage for the fourth time. Then, with a sigh, Horace gave up and closed the
Codex
. Bright light poured in the window of his solarium. His tunic was undone to allow some air to get to his sweaty chest.
What is she waiting for?

It had been three days since he returned to Erugash, only to find the city awash in a heat wave. Hot, sultry air lingered on the streets, hardly moving at all. Lord Xantu had invited him, quite firmly, to return to his home. “Until Her Majesty has need of you,” were the
zoanii
's exact words.

And so he did, returning to his manor, where he discovered more piles of offerings and gifts outside his front gate. This time, though, there were no petitioners, for which he had been eminently grateful. He didn't know if he could deal with them right now. His world was crumbling apart. The rebellion had been crushed, ruthlessly, and Jirom was again in chains, awaiting what Horace feared would be a ghastly death.

Left alone with his worries, Horace went over his argument again and again, why he had attempted to parley with the rebel slaves, how mercy and understanding would soothe the country's wounds. But he was barred from seeing the queen. He'd found out about the assassination attempt on her life from his chambermaid.

He wished he had someone to talk to, but all his friends were gone. Mulcibar. Ubar. Even Alyra, although in her case he was somewhat glad she wasn't here. Anyone close to him was at risk.

And now he awaited a summons from the palace, where he would learn his fate. Lord Xantu, no doubt, was informing the queen of everything that had happened at Sekhatun.
If he convinces Byleth I'm a traitor, I may be sharing Jirom's sentence
.

I can't sit around any longer. I need to talk to Jirom
.

He took down the sword of his office from the wall and went to his room. When he was dressed in his finest robes and properly coiffed, with the sword
hanging from his hip, he went downstairs. Captain Gurita, sitting by the front door, got to his feet. “Going out, sir?”

“Please call for a litter.”

Horace paced back and forth through the foyer while he waited. He didn't have much of a plan. He thought about sending a message to Mezim, but there wasn't time. If he waited too long, he'd lose his nerve.

When Gurita returned, Horace followed him outside. A litter car waited in the courtyard with four stout bearers. Fighting his distaste for such vehicles, Horace climbed inside. “Stay put, Gurita. I won't need you today.”

Harxes rushed out of the house, his long robe dragging on the pavestones. “Master, shall I summon the rest of your bodyguard?”

“No, Harxes. Please make sure the three books in my study are returned to the archives if anything should happen.”

His steward frowned but then bowed. “As you say.”

Horace rapped on the roof of the litter. “To the royal palace.”

The bearers picked him up and got underway. The heat was unbearable. Horace opened the curtains for some air, but it hardly helped. The ride reminded him of his first time in Erugash. Only a few months ago, but it felt like years. In that short time the city had somehow become as much a home to him as Avice had ever been. Gazing upon the tall tiers of buildings with their balcony gardens and painted domes, he felt a sense of pride. He wanted to believe he had done some good while he was here. He smiled at the people he passed on the avenue, nodding to the tradesmen and the laborers, the acolytes and students, the sailors and devas, as if they were old friends.
Yes, I'm one of you now. And I will meet my fate with the proper dignity
.

A row of heads on spikes greeted him at the outer gate of the palace. Most of the flesh had been picked from the skulls, making it impossible for him to identify anyone, but he didn't think any of them were Jirom.

Horace put on a stern face as a gate warden came over. “First Sword,” the officer said. “We weren't expecting you today.”

This was exactly what he had feared might happen. If there was an order to keep him out of the palace…

However, before he could form a reply, the sentry barked for the gate to be opened and waved the litter onward. “Have a good day,
Belzama
.”

“Uh, and you as well,” Horace mumbled.

Thank you, Lord. Or Lady Sippa. At this point, I'll take all the help I can get
.

Only once he was inside did Horace notice the lack of protestors around the palace. Suddenly, the row of heads made more sense.

Horace got out of the litter. As he climbed the steps to the main entrance, he glanced up at the summit of the pyramid and was almost blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the great golden dome. The sentries at the inner gate stood aside as he approached.

Once inside the Grand Atrium, Horace let out a little sigh of relief and set off to find Jirom. He went to the north wing, to an access hall with a sturdy door at the far end that led to the dungeon level. Two soldiers of the Queen's Guard flanked the door. Their gazes focused on him.

Clearing his throat, Horace marched over to the door. “I'm here to see a prisoner.”

The guard on the left said, “No one is allowed entrance without a writ from the queen.”

“I am the First Sword. I have the authority—”

“Sorry, your lordship,” the guard on the right said. “But this order comes directly from Her Majesty. No admittance under any circumstances. Please leave this chamber.”

Horace stared at the men, but they did not waver. Finally, with one hand on the pommel of his sword, he stalked out. For half a moment he had considered forcing his way through but then thought the better of it.

Horace was exiting the hall when he saw Lord Xantu approaching at the head of a dozen guards.

“First Sword,” Xantu said. “You are to come with me by the order of—”

“The queen,” Horace finished for him. “
Ai
, I had the feeling you might say that.”

He followed them through the Grand Atrium, up several flights of stone steps. At first, he thought they were taking him to the queen's rooms or perhaps one of the upper council chambers, but Lord Xantu led him to a small
room on the second-highest tier, a room devoid of furniture or decoration. Just plain white plaster walls and a stone floor. A single, narrow window pierced the wall two arms' lengths above his head.

“You are to remain here,” Xantu said. There was no emotion in his voice, no inflection at all. Then he closed the door and left Horace alone.

Horace heard the clank of metal as the guards took positions outside the door. He was tempted to try to the latch to see if it was locked or enspelled, but he didn't want to know. As long as he wasn't certain otherwise, he could pretend he was a guest instead of a prisoner.

So he stood in the center of the room, perfectly still, for as long as he could stand it, which was about half a bell. Then, propelled by his nerves, he began pacing. He walked back and forth across the room, examining his situation from every angle.

If the queen wanted him detained, or even dead, there wasn't much he could do to prevent it. He had no powerful allies to protect him. Even his
zoana
was refusing to cooperate. He was entirely in Byleth's power. But then again she knew that, and he still lived, which meant she wanted him alive. He stopped pacing.
Or she needs me. But why? She can handle the rebellion without me. Lord Xantu proved that at Sekhatun. That was a test—which I failed—but nothing more. No, she needs me for something else. Something more important
.

He tried to wrap his mind around her possible motivations. He discarded love right away. Byleth was no naive debutante. She played at seduction the way a cat toys with mice. Another bell passed by, and still he had no idea what the queen wanted from him. However he did come to one realization.
If she needs me badly enough, maybe I can use that to help Jirom
.

He wished he knew where Alyra was this very moment. He felt lost without her. Even fighting with her was better than being alone.
Maybe that's a side of love I've never known before. Maybe it doesn't always need to be peaceful. Did she leave because I didn't fight hard enough to keep her?

He jumped when the door opened but then breathed a sigh of relief as Mezim walked in. He hadn't seen his secretary in person since they returned to the city. “What's going on?”

Mezim bowed from the waist. “I have been sent to fetch you.”

All the warmth left Horace's body. Trying to mask his apprehension, he started toward the door. However, Mezim held out his hands. “My apologies, but I am ordered to take the weapon.”

Horace looked down at the sword at his side.
So they don't expect me to take my own life. Is that because no one believes I possess the honor necessary to carry it out? Maybe they're right
.

He took off the weapon with care and handed it over. Mezim accepted it with another bow. Horace opened his mouth, thinking to give some last command as First Sword, some way he could make things better. But nothing came to mind. “Mezim, I think you'd better go home.”

“I will accompany you—”

“Not this time. I'll handle this. Whatever happens, you're not to involve yourself. Understood?”

The secretary nodded, his face impassive. Horace patted him on the shoulder before he strode out the door, into the hall where Lord Xantu and Lady Anshara awaited. The lady made a nod in his direction. Xantu simply indicated for Horace to come along. He did, walking between the two bodyguards. An entire platoon of the Queen's Guard closed in behind them.

His escort took him down the central stairs to the main audience chamber. The huge golden doors were open when they arrived. The coolness of the audience hall wafted over Horace as he entered. Members of the upper castes stood along both sides of the hall, leaving a broad aisle clear to the dais where the queen already waited.

Horace tried to gauge the mood of the assembly as he approached the throne, but the faces turned to him were impassive. That was something about the Akeshian culture he hadn't been able to breech, their ability to convey entire conversations just through gestures and expressions, or hide their thoughts so completely when they wanted. Byleth was no different. Wearing a long white gown that left her arms bare, her hair piled up in a tower bedecked with golden chains and jewels, she looked every bit a queen. She sat, hands resting on the arms of her throne, eyes focused on him.

Horace stopped a few paces from the bottom step of the dais and made a formal bow. He was considering whether he should go down on one knee
or make some other obeisance when the queen addressed him. “Lord Horace, take your place with us.”

He glanced up in surprise and saw a slight upturn of the queen's lips as she indicated a spot to her left. Horace climbed the marble steps, careful not trip, and turned to stand beside the queen.
Maybe she's not angry with me. Maybe I can escape this with my hide intact
—

His composure threatened to buckle as a square of soldiers marched into the audience chamber. The stomp of forty nailed boots sent loud echoes throughout the hall, amid the chorus of jingling mail and the rhythmic stamp of their spear butts on the floor. In their midst were two prisoners. Horace swallowed against the painful knot that had formed in his throat.

Jirom and the rebel leader, Emanon, stood in the center of the formation. Iron collars around their necks were joined to wrist manacles by lengths of heavy chain. Likewise their feet were shackled together. Both men sported numerous bruises, Jirom also having terrible burn marks across his head. Emanon's wounds seemed more concentrated on his body, and he walked with a shambling limp. Yet, despite their injuries, both men stood tall as if this were a parade in their honor. Jirom's eyes locked on Horace, and he swallowed again.

The platoon leader held out a long, curved sword in a beautiful scabbard adorned with gold filigree. Lord Xantu took the weapon and presented it to the queen. “Queen Byleth, I present the leaders of the slaves who so heinously rebelled against your divine rule. And also this
assurana
blade, which was found with these men. It belonged to
Kapikul
Hazael of House Tanunak, who was slain at the Battle of Omikur.”

“Kill them, my queen!”

The shout rang out through the hall, and other voices rose to match it, raking the captives with vicious threats. Jirom stood quietly, still staring at Horace. The other man laughed out loud and was clubbed in the face by a soldier. Spitting blood, he wobbled for a moment but remained on his feet. Horace tore his eyes away from the prisoners to watch Byleth. She sat calmly, saying nothing for a few heartbeats. Then she lifted a hand, and the crowd fell silent.

“We thank you, Lord Xantu, for these prizes. By the efforts of our most
trusted servants…” Byleth turned her head slightly in Horace's direction. “…the rebellion has been crushed. For their actions, the captives will be put to death.”

Appreciative noises rose from the crowd. Horace could imagine what cruel tortures they were devising in their heads for these men who had dared to fight against the natural order. It made him burn with anger, which combined with the frustration in his stomach to make an unsettling brew. He could feel Jirom's gaze upon him, as if willing him to do something. Horace couldn't take it. “Excellence, may I speak?”